


Closer Throughout the Day

by AliciaMarie43



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU, Artist Steve Rogers, Depressed Bucky Barnes, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, alternative universe, steve rogers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 18:28:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15055151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliciaMarie43/pseuds/AliciaMarie43





	Closer Throughout the Day

     You got the call during a rainstorm. It was 2018.  
It had started around noon and it was about 6 now. The streets were under a flood warning and on the news was already a flurry of road closings in the upper corner as they talked about something else on the main screen. The windows that looked out over the park from the living room were impossible to see through so instead you tried to count the drops sliding down, wondering which one would hit the edge of the frame first.  
     Steve had been gone for three weeks, somewhere on the other side of the world, studying the old Italian artists like Michelangelo and Raphael. You often imagined what he was doing during the day, what conversations he was having, if he was thinking of you as much as you thought of him.  
     You were laying down on the couch, twisting your hair lazily between your fingers. Something was on the tv but you weren’t watching it.  
You got the call during a rainstorm that was slowly turning into a thunderstorm, the feeling of electricity high from the open window in the kitchen. The street was taking on an orange hue and the people who had decided to brave the street where running through puddles, looking for cover.  
The call came now. It was from Steve. His breathing was coming out fast like an asthma attack but he hadn’t had one of those for years.  
     “Bucky,” he says. “Guess what?”  
     “What?”  
     He laughs, a crisp laugh like how the air in autumn. You imagine what he’s doing. That maybe he’s standing in his kitchen making something to eat or maybe he’s at some Italian restaurant in the city with his friends.  
     “I have an exhibit,” he says. “It goes up next month. Isn’t that exciting?”  
     “Steve, that’s great.” And it is great. He sends you sketches of his art, pictures of the finished projects. But your heart still sank into your stomach.  
     “You’ll come?”  
     He sounds earnest, like he’s building up this steel armor around his voice, like he’s expecting you to say no. You’ve said no before, another time another place. Airfare is expensive. You can’t do that again.  
     “Yes, of course. I’m so proud of you.”  
     “Ok,” he says and the hesitation is gone filled instead with the yellow sound of happiness that Steve seems to carry around in his pocket. “I have to get to bed. I’ll call you later. I love you.” He hangs up.  
     You wait until you hear the beep of the phone dial as Steve hangs up before you set your phone face down on the coffee table. There’s magazines and coupons from pizza places scattered around, threatening to fall onto the floor. There’s a few plates on the floor already from where you put them after eating with them on your chest as you watched tv this afternoon.  
     You take the balled up socks at the end of the couch into the bathroom to throw into the hamper. You splash water on your face and think about how you were going to manage to get to Italy for Steve’s show. He’d been accepted to some internship there, after having an internship in New York City and then an apprenticeship in LA. This is the farthest he’d been and even though you wanted to go, the financial security made you stop. Steve had sent his paychecks from each internship to help you keep their apartment, and this time would be no different, but it was still tight month after month.  
You hear someone coming through the front door and see the red hair of Nat. She’s carrying a few bags like brown paper babies held on the curve of her hip. There’s another, the one you pick up, at the door.  
     “It smells like man in here,” she says.  
     “Well, I am a man.”  
     “I mean feet. And sweat.”  
     “Sorry?”  
      She opens the fridge and starts putting food away. She’s muttering to herself, singing maybe but you don’t ask. You take a cup out of the cupboard, fill it with ice water. It clinks against your teeth, making a pointed pain erupt in your front teeth.  
     “You should really go to the dentist,” says Nat. She’s not even looking at you.  
     “Yeah, with what insurance?”  
      You sit at the dining room table. You watch as Nat puts stuff in the fridge, her movements choppy. Her face was getting red and with each thump as she drops things into the door. Finally she turns to you and slams her manicured hand onto the dining room table.  
     “I’m pissed,” she says.  
     “Why?” you ask.  
     “You. Moping around all the time. The dishes that have been in the sink for like god knows how long. Do something. Have you showered today?”  
     “I do dishes.”  
     "One dish a century doesn’t count,” she says.  
     “I don’t have time for this.”  
      You get up and walk into your room. It’s just as messy as the rest of the house. Even with your door closed you can hear Nat slamming things around. She had moved in when Steve had pretty much moved out. You decided maybe you did need a shower.  
You took a towel off the floor of your room, smelled it and then threw it on the bed. You took your pants off kicking them into the corner next to your hamper. You wrapped the towel around your waist and went out into the hallway. Nat was still in the kitchen. She was cooking something and talking to her mom on the phone. You didn’t know Russian and you weren’t sure if the angry edge to her voice was how she felt or just the way the language sounded.  
You let the steam fill up the bathroom to hide your reflection before you took the towel off and stood under the hot water. You let it fall over your head and down your face until you couldn’t hold your breath anymore and your eyes were stinging. You took shampoo and scrubbed at your scalp hoping the shampoo’s smell would help you sleep.  
      Once you were out Nat was sitting on the couch eating whatever it was that she made, her blanket around her shoulders and the blue glow of the tv on her face. She was relaxed and didn’t look at you.  
     You went to your room and laid the damp blanket on your bed, something Steve hated when he was home. You put on a pair of boxers and a tshirt before going back out into the living room.  
     “There’s food,” says Nat.  
     This was as close as an apology as Nat ever gave you. You wanted to ask what was wrong but new that as soon as you looked at her when you sat on the couch she’d break under the scrutiny and tell you.  
     “Thanks.”  
     When you go in there’s stir fry in the pan and some rice in a pot on the top of the stove. You spoon some into your bowl and grab a fork. You wonder how this became your life. You wonder if there’s any way to get back to doing things you liked and if there was anyway to get to goddamned Italy.  
     You sit on the floor by Nat’s feet to put your bowl on the table. You’re a messy eater, and getting food on the couch isn’t the way to make Nat feel better.  
     “I’m sorry,” you say.  
     “I know.”  
     “I’m trying.”  
     “I know,” she sighs. “I’m sorry too.”  
     Shocking, but not altogether unexpected.  
     “Why are you mad?”  
     “Some fuck boy,” she says, “he took me on date three today and now he’s texting me that he doesn’t want to see me anymore.”  
     “Why? No sex?”  
     “Yeah,” she says, “I’m not obligated to give that to him.”  
     “You’re not wrong,” you say, “But some guys think there’s this like barrier and at date three they think they’ve like earned something.”  
     “Well, it’s bullshit.”  
     You laugh into your rice because she’s right, it is bullshit, but you’re not responsible for the fuck boys in the world. You’re just Bucky and it’s all you can be.  
     She runs her fingers through your hair and scratches at the roots. You lean into her touch. It’s relaxing and you didn’t know how much you craved physical affection until she had touched you.  
     “There’s a reading tomorrow at that coffee shop in town. Wanna go?”  
     “Yeah, that sounds like fun.”  
     It doesn’t actually but humoring Nat was easier than telling her no. And you had no real reason to tell her no. You work, sure, but you’ll be off in time to go to the stupid thing. Maybe it’d be over quick and you could stop at that gas station on the way home and get some beer.  
You look at the show Nat is watching but you don’t really see it and eventually your eyes glaze over as you think about how nice it would be to see Steve.  
He had applied to the internship halfheartedly, saying that Florence was where real artists came from, and that any internship there was a real honest to goodness once in a lifetime opportunity. It was to be some curator’s assistant but he’d get experience and getting experience there would look amazing, at least that’s what he told you. You felt guilty when he got accepted, hoping secretly, that he’d decide to stay.  
     “I’m going to bed,” says Nat. She unwinds her legs from under herself and you hear the pops of her knees. She stretches once she stands up, her shirt showing the tanned hard muscle of her stomach. “Night.”  
You stand up too, checking your watch to see that’s it’s midnight and that means Steve’s probably awake somewhere a thousand miles from here getting ready for the day.  
     You call him.  
     “Hello?” He just woke up. You can tell by his voice.  
     “Hey,” you say.  
     “Hey, what’s up?”  
     “Just heading to bed. How’d you sleep?”  
     “Great. I had the weirdest dream.” He launches into the telling of some scifi dream that sounds like a spoof of Star Wars, Steve in the part of Luke. You tuck yourself in like you did every night and listen to him talk about everything.  
     “One second, I’m gonna change my clothes,” says Steve.  
      You can hear him put his phone down and the dull sounds of movement as he changes. You hear a thud and know that he probably fell over putting his pants on. You smile. You miss him.  
     “I’m back,” he says.  
     “Will you sing to me?” you ask.  
     “I have a terrible voice,” he says. You ask him every night and every night he says he has a terrible voice.  
     “Please. It puts me to sleep.”  
     “Fine,” he says but you can hear the smile. “What do you want to hear?”  
     “What ever.”  
     Steve picks the Elvis song you danced to at Prom. It was the cheesiest song but it was also the song the both of you counted as yours. You listened to him sing the song in the wrong key, but you still loved the way his voice sounded in your ear. It was easy to fall asleep like this.  
     “Sweet dreams, Buck.”  
     You’re barely asleep but Steve hangs up, leaving you to drift the rest of the way off and he’ll drift farther away from you throughout the day. Sometimes you wonder how close he gets to you throughout the day, but you don’t actually know. You wish you had asked him to stay just a little longer, you wish you had asked him to stay at all. You wish you had said you missed him. But the part of you that secretly wished he’d give up his dream for you also thinks that maybe he doesn’t miss you at all.


End file.
